


it is hopeless here (and so are we)

by whileawaythehours



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Limbo, Being Lost, Dreams, Dreamsharing, M/M, Short, beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whileawaythehours/pseuds/whileawaythehours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it is Limbo. Maybe it is not. What matters is the quality of the company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is hopeless here (and so are we)

It’s desolate. It’s completely fucking desolate. If it wasn’t for the hollowed out building on the edge of the beach, Arthur would probably drive himself insane trying to find the place where the beach ends. If it wasn’t for Eames, he would probably have already been walking for weeks, trying to find the place where the beach meets something that isn't bloody sand. There likely isn’t one. This might be Limbo. Neither of them can tell any more. They could spend months more down here- years. Maybe they’re closer to the top than they think.

They’re certainly not in reality.

They had formed a pact- maybe a week ago- to only check their totems twice a day. Morning and night. Morning and fucking night. Over and over.

There’s food. Of course there’s food. And there’s water- a small spring on a crop of volcanic rock. It’s fresh, but it doesn’t slide down as easily as real water, and it’s so maddening Arthur can barely drink it. Eames convinces him to.

Eames finds the food, too. Arthur hasn’t a clue where from, and that's just as annoying as everything else here.  


They live in the abandoned tower block where the beach meets the desert. Eames leaves in the morning- fucking ridiculous morning- and returns with a small net full of crabs and little fish.

One day, he has what might crudely resemble bread, but it tastes like the sea all the same. It’s sickening.

They supposedly make the best of a difficult situation- that’s what Eames calls it. Adaptation.

Arthur calls it stupidity. They’ll die here or lose their minds. They’re dragging out the process.

Neither of them knows how they got here and neither of them know how to leave. It took them weeks to remember each other (though in truth, after a couple of days of hostility their bodies had fitted together under the singular tatty blanket at night like a fucking memory, and that pissed Arthur off more than anything, at the time).

Eames calls Arthur ‘darling’ and they spend the evenings on their backs watching the stars. Eames has no fashion sense- his clothes are hideous- and he can’t cook crab as well as he thinks he can. Eames is British, Arthur thinks. After some time their accents mould and change and Arthur barely recognises when Eames’ dips and his rises on certain words. Eames’ hands feel as rough as the volcanic rock in Arthur’s. They’re big and solid, just like Eames himself, and Arthur occasionally wonders what else he would have expected.

Sometimes they talk about what they remember. Sometimes they don’t.

They once discussed an animal that they vaguely remembered but even now neither of them know its name and neither of them care enough to waste their sanity on it.

They don’t dream here and don’t suppose they can. They sleep, though. The nights are dark and cold, dirty and dry just like the days.

Eames talks about water falling from the sky, and Arthur remembers that it is called rain.

They don’t know the word for what they feel; they don’t need a word.

They wonder if they are like this up above- where Arthur’s die rolls onto the right number and where Eames’ chip has a groove in the right place. Eames is the one to decide that they probably aren't. They fall out, because Arthur is too stubborn to admit that Eames is right.

They walk together that night, though, and Arthur takes Eames’ hand in his. It’s solid and it’s as real as it ever will be, and Arthur supposes that, here, that’s enough for him.

Whatever it is, it’s real. Not like this dream. Whatever they feel, it’s real on all the levels. However hard they (grudgingly, on Arthur’s part) agree that it’s likely they don’t express it this openly.

It’s hopeless here, but they have found each other, and that is enough.


End file.
